


Deadlines/Headlines

by BradyGirl_12



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman/Batman (Comics), World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Established Relationship, Lois Fiercely Protecting Clark!, Lois Lane Getting Into Trouble Again!, M/M, Male Slash, Reporters, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7529434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BradyGirl_12/pseuds/BradyGirl_12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lois is tracking a hot story while keeping an eye on Clark as Bruce circles around her naïve partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shark Bruce Circles Minnow Clark (And That's Not Just A Three-Hour Tour!!! :) )

**Author's Note:**

> Original LJ Date Of Completion: September 20, 2015  
> Original LJ Date Of Posting: July 19, 2016  
> Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, DC does, more’s the pity.  
> Original LJ Word Count: 2667  
> Feedback welcome and appreciated.  
> Author’s Note: One of my favorite tropes: Lois fiercely protecting Clark! :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lois is handed a journalistic plum while suspicious of Billionaire Brucie’s intentions towards Clark.

I swore under my breath as my computer screen froze and banged the monitor with the palm of my hand.

“Damn it, don’t do this to me! I’ve got a deadline!”

“You and me both.”

I glanced over at the desk opposite mine. Clark was busy typing his own story, a pencil stuck in his teeth. His hair was slightly mussed and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. His tie was loosened and a cup of coffee was carefully set far away from the keyboard. A half-eaten lemon doughnut rested on a napkin by Clark’s elbow. He was the picture of a harried reporter and I knew exactly how he felt.

“If I don’t get this in by ten o’clock, Perry will have my head,” Clark said.

“He already has enough heads mounted on his wall.”

“Every good editor does.”

I snorted. I had to agree with that. “Too bad you can’t type as fast as Superman.”

“Yeah.” He flashed me a quick smile.

I could detect some nervousness. Amusement curved my lips as I started my own typing.

I had certainly had my suspicions over the years about Clark as Superman. I was just about convinced that my suspicions were correct but had no definitive proof. Instead of trying to find that proof (if I stumbled upon it, fine) I now covered his lame excuses, and watched his back. 

And if he wasn’t Superman, he still needed watching because he had to have the most delicate digestive system on Earth, always having to run to the bathroom. Perry says he’ll gold-plate the men’s room someday because a star reporter needs some perks. I think Clark would have preferred a bonus in his paycheck. So would I, but I wouldn’t mind some fresh flowers in the ladies’ room, maybe some scented toilet paper. 

I stared at my computer screen. Fuck. I had all the facts but today it was like pulling teeth to write ‘em. Damn, I wanted a smoke.

Unfortunately, I had no time for one. Perry was really on my ass and I had to deliver. Deadlines could be a bitch, but they also added fuel to the fire.

I loved everything about the newspaper business, even the damned deadlines. I love chasing down a story, getting at the truth, and getting that front page byline. Sure, I’ve got an ego. You’ve got to have one to be a star reporter in this business. 

I guess that’s why Clark always intrigued me. On the surface, he’s not the typical aggressive reporter at all. He’s too quiet, too passive, yet he somehow manages to get the story. Considering my suspicions, I could say he cheats on Superman stories, but he manages to get the non-super stories, too. He’s got a natural instinct for this work. The way he crafts a story shows real writing chops.

I looked at my scribbled notes, muttering as I tried to decipher them. I really need to learn shorthand or something.

I propped my chin on my hand as I stared down at my notes. I could hear people clacking away on their computer keyboards (sometimes I missed the old typewriters), the phones ringing, the yells for copy boys and girls, the chatter of reporters on deadline. This was in my blood, the newsroom and the cutthroats who worked in it. Any one of them would be happy to get you a doughnut form the break room on their way out or send flowers to you in the hospital, but they would also shove you aside as they ran to grab an interview with someone or send you to the wrong room for a press conference.

Clark’s cell phone rang and he answered, typing with one hand. “Kent here. Oh, hi, Ma. Yes, we…I’ll be coming for a visit this weekend” He listened for a minute, then responded, “I’d like that, Ma. Can I speak to Pa? Okay, don’t let him try and lift that engine at all. I’ll do it when I get there. How’s the weather?” Clark took a sip of coffee. “That’s great! The corn will be safe. Okay, Ma. Love you. See you soon.” 

As Clark set his phone down, I laughed. “Boy, you can sure tell you’re a farmer.”

“Huh?” Clark asked absently as he resumed typing two-handed.

“Asking about the weather.”

“Don’t people always talk about the weather?”

“Darling, you’re asking about the weather for the corn!”

“Corn is a major crop for my family.” Clark took a bite of his doughnut.

“Corn is part of your make-up,” I said wryly.

Instead of taking my offense, Clark smiled. “Gee, thanks, Lois.”

I looked at him with narrowed eyes. I couldn’t tell if he was genuine with the ‘gee’ routine (and where was the ‘golly’?) or being jokingly sarcastic? Did Clark even _do_ sarcastic?

Yeah, he could.

“Damn you, Smallville.”

His grin gave me my answer. Rolling my eyes, I went back to studying my notes.

Clark’s phone rang again. “Kent here.” His voice dropped its business-like tone. “Oh, hi.” He kept typing while he listened. “Yeah, I enjoyed last night. Are you available tonight? Aw, okay. Look, Ma called. She’s getting ready for us this weekend. Yes, pack your jeans and workboots!” Clark took a sip of coffee. “Where are you? Huh?” 

I had finally deciphered my chicken scratches. Naturally I was listening to Clark, his conversation background noise. Sounds like he’s got a girlfriend.

Well, that’s not surprising. Clark’s no Superman, but he’s cute in those glasses, and sweet besides. Polite and attentive, he’s also broad-shouldered (though he has a tendency to slump), and has a nice smile. A girl could do a lot worse.

Clark was no longer talking. Had he hung up without saying goodbye? Definitely not like him.

I typed up a paragraph and snuck a look over at Clark. Maybe I’d missed his goodbye to his main squeeze. He seemed intent on his article and his phone cover was closed.

And that’s when I saw our erstwhile owner. He had just come off the elevator and was looking around. He started toward our desks.

Grrreat, that’s all we needed! Our playboy owner coming to stick his nose in when we’re all on deadlines. I determinedly kept my focus on my notes and computer screen.

“Ah, my star reporters.”

Bruce Wayne’s voice was silky. I wouldn’t call it oily. That was for people who had a brain in their heads.

“Hello, Mr. Wayne.”

Ever-polite Clark acknowledged Wayne while I ignored him. The guy had won the sperm lottery and followed in his parents’ footsteps with charitable works, but that didn’t mean I had to like him. 

“Working on a hot story?”

“Um, yes, sir.”

I typed as I translated my notes. Maybe I could get this thing in before the dreaded Deadline.

“Good to see you hard at work.” I could hear a thump and pictured Wayne pounding Clark’s shoulder. I had to refrain from rolling my eyes. False heartiness was another black mark for Brucie in my book.

“Well, Mr. Wayne, we find the hot stories and get right on ‘em!”

I gritted my teeth. Damnit, Clark, don’t kiss his ass!

“Good man.” Another thump. “What’s the story about?”

“Corrupt businessmen,” I shot over my monitor.

“Oh?” Wayne sounded amused. “Anyone I know?”

“Didn’t you go to school with Lex Luthor?”

“Is ol’ Lex in trouble again? You’d think he’d know better by now.”

“Well, Lex is an ambitious type,” Clark said.

I typed faster as Wayne laughed. What a phony! I guess it’s a required class in Silver Spoon school to laugh mockingly. What a jerk! I looked up and saw him smiling at Clark, whose back was to him.

Was it a smug smile? Mocking? Superior?

I fumed while I typed. I didn’t like Clark being so vulnerable, especially with a shark like Bruce Wayne. Empty-headed he might be, but sometimes those guys were the most dangerous.

I was making progress with my story. I wasn’t going to allow any distractions to keep me from meeting this deadline.

“Should I alert my attorneys as to when this story is published?”

“No libel in this story, Mr. Wayne.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Wayne walked over to my desk. “What’s up with you, Ms. Lane?”

“Deadline, Mr. Wayne.”

“Hmm.” I could smell his expensive cologne as he leaned over my shoulder. “A housing scandal, eh?”

“That’s right.” My fingers were flying over the keys. “Some crooks don’t mind throwing people out of their homes.”

“Guess that’s why they’re crooks.”

I somehow refrained from rolling my eyes. Har de har har!

“I’m going to have a little tete a tete with Perry. Keep up the good work, people.”

I didn’t get a thump on the shoulder. Brucie must be paying attention to the sexual harassment training videos. 

Once Wayne was out of earshot I said, “Well, now that the empty-headed Prince is gone, those of us who really work for a living can get back to it.”

“Aw, he’s not so bad, Lois.”

“Hmph.” My fingers were starting to cramp up.

Clark stopped typing. He was either finished and re-reading the whole thing or eating the last of his doughnut.

“Honestly, Clark, you’re just too damned nice.”

“Huh?”

“To Wayne! The guy’s a jerk!”

“He’s also our boss.”

I grumbled, not wanting to admit that Clark was right.

I worked for the next half hour, glad of only the usual chaos of the newsroom surrounding me. It was music to my ears.

Finally I was finished! A quick read-through and I was done. Editing would take care of my spelling errors. If this was a typewriter, I’d rip the last page out of the machine and yell, “Copy boy!” Instead I hit the ‘Send’ key and leaned back in my chair, lacing my fingers behind my head and putting my feet up on the desk. 

I frowned as I noticed Clark was gone. Looking around, I saw no signs of him.

“Lois!”

Perry’s bellow cut through the newsroom noise. I put my feet down and stood up, weaving through desks and reporters. I reached Perry’s office.

“Come in and shut the door.”

“Sure, Chief.” I stifled a laugh at Perry’s glare. “Did you read my story already? That’s some fast reading.”

“No, Miss Smartypants. Sit down.”

I took a seat, crossing my arms. “What’s up, Perry?”

The editor chewed his unlit cigar. “I want you to cover the Mangione trial.”

My eyes lit up as I leaned forward. “The Mangione trial! I thought Charlie Byrnes was covering that.”

“He’s in the hospital with pneumonia.”

“Sorry to hear that.” It was true. As much as I relished this assignment, I genuinely regretted Charlie’s illness. He was our best crime reporter. “I’ll start reading the background.” I stood up. “Did Bruce Wayne leave the building?” 

“Yeah, why?”

“Just newswoman curiosity.”

Perry’s expression obviously showed his scepticism. “Start studying, Lois.”

I grinned and left the office.

& & & & & &

The Mangione trial took place in Metropolis’ Federal courthouse. Since Federal trials allowed no cameras, a sketch artist was employed to draw the principals. I just hoped that she was a better artist than the one who had been assigned to the Tom Brady vs. NFL trial. How can anyone make Tom Brady of all people look ugly? Takes a certain lack of talent, I guess. 

Reporters were allowed in but were only allowed to make notes. No tweeting or any other social media. I used a yellow legal pad and a trusty ballpoint pen to write my scintillating thoughts.

This was prime stuff. Clark hadn’t even asked about what I was up to. In fact, he hadn’t even been around this morning.

The trial was interesting with murder and mayhem as the featured points, but I had a nagging feeling about Clark. What was he up to? Despite his country manners it wasn’t like him not to snoop into my business. Like all good reporters, he had to know what was going on. It was in the blood!

When court adjourned, I called Clark but his cell phone was off. I declined to leave a voicemail message. Instead, I called Lucy.

“Yeah, Sis, I’m springing for dinner. Meet me at Luciano’s. It’s on Dexell Street. Yeah, very posh neighborhood. See you at six.”

I went back to the _Daily Planet_ but still no Clark. Was he deep undercover or something? Perry was busy yelling at Jimmy so I decided to ask him tomorrow about my missing partner’s whereabouts.

By the time I finished up, it was time to meet Lucy at Luciano’s. I left the building, grabbed a cab, and mentally reviewed my plan. 

_Luciano’s_ was not only a popular Italian restaurant, but it was rumoured to be a favorite watering hole for the Mangione Mob. I hoped to pick up some scrap of information that might lead to something, or put the trial in a better or different perspective.

The hostess led me to a table in a corner. Luciano's was dim, lit mainly by candlelight. No wonder mobsters favored this place. You could barely make out the other diners.

I sat in my booth and ordered a drink while waiting for Lucy. The tablecloth was a rich red and the candle in the center was placed in a red jar, not a Chianti bottle. I couldn’t tell if there were pictures of Italy on the walls. Mostly there seemed to be black swathes of fabric covering the walls. They only served dinner so it was always dark in here.

I wanted to get the lay of the land. Once my eyes adjusted, I might be able to see if any Mangione mobsters were around. If they were here tonight, chances were good that they’d be here tomorrow night, too, and I could put my plan into action.

I looked around but saw no mobsters, but the darkness could be tricky. As the waiter brought my drink, Lucy arrived. She was looking gorgeous, her blond hair perfectly coiffed and her blue eyes mischievous.

“Hey, Sis, thanks for the invite,” she said as she slid into the booth. Her green dress was very flattering, accentuating her trim waist. 

“You’re welcome. Doesn’t Jimmy take you to posh places like this?”

Lucy snorted. “Let me tell you, Mr. Action is all talk and no action.”

I had to laugh. Poor Jimmy. “Live it up, kid. I got a bonus last month.”

“Hmm, does that include the wine list?”

“Nope, I’ve got dough, but I’m not Bruce Wayne.”

Lucy snickered as she perused the menu. It was one of those big ones with tassels. It’s the kind of menu that fancy French restaurants used and kept the prices off.

We started off with crisp green salads filled with ripe cherry tomatoes and red onions. I chose Thousand Island dressing and Lucy liked the house dressing, Italian, of course. We enjoyed warm, crusty garlic bread and baked ziti with meatballs (mine) and haddock with saffron rice and penne with garden vegetable sauce (Lucy). We chatted about Lucy’s latest layover in London.

“Yeah, it was good weather, believe it or not.” Lucy ate a piece of fish. “Hey, isn’t that Clark?”

“Where?”

“That corner booth over there.”

I squinted. Damn this darkness! “Hey, you’re right. And he’s with Bruce Wayne!”

“Clever boy. Go for the rich ones, I say.” Lucy sipped her wine.

“Damn.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t trust Billionaire Brucie.”

“He seems harmless enough.”

I glared at Lucy. “Are you kidding? He’s an airhead who uses people and discards them like yesterday’s trash.”

Lucy’s smile was affectionate. “Don’t worry, Big Sis, Clark’ll be all right.”

I sighed. “Don’t call me ‘Big’.”

Lucy laughed. “Our Kansas farmboy is smarter than his bumbling exterior. He won’t let Silver Spoon bamboozle him.”

“He wears his heart on his sleeve,” I mumbled.

Somehow I’d chase off that shallow pie plate from Gotham.


	2. Sleeping With The Fishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lois goes undercover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original LJ Date Of Completion: September 26, 2015  
> Original LJ Date Of Posting:  
> Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, DC does, more’s the pity.  
> Original LJ Word Count: 2186  
> Feedback welcome and appreciated.  
> Author’s Note: One of my favorite tropes: Lois fiercely protecting Clark! :)

I was at the _Planet_ bright and early the next day, figuring to catch Mr. Up-With-The-Sun, but Clark wasn’t there. I marched into Perry’s office. Did the man sleep there? No one could beat him into the building.

“Where’s my partner, Perry?”

“Good morning to you, too, Lois.” Perry ate an English muffin with strawberry jam. He often had a tray sent up from the cafeteria. Rank had its privileges.

“C’mon, Perry.” I kept my hands on my hips. I wasn’t backing down.

“Probably at the Prince’s palatial penthouse. I persuaded our erstwhile owner to allow an interview for the Sunday supplement.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Perry drank his coffee. He always took it black and strong as steel. Come to think of it, so did Clark. 

_“Why_ do we need another puff piece about Mr. Spoiled Brat?”

“Careful, Lois, that ‘spoiled brat’ signs your paychecks.”

“I know that!” I refused to budge.

Perry put jam on his second muffin. “See that you remember it. Now get out of here and get over to the courthouse.” I huffed and started to leave. “Hey.” I turned back. “Good story yesterday on the trial.” He picked up the phone. 

An inner devil prompted me. “Thanks, Chief.” Perry’s shout of, “Don’t call me Chief!” followed me out to the newsroom as I grinned a Cheshire Cat grin.

I grabbed up my notes and headed for the courthouse.

& & & & & &

Lucy was with me today. I’d managed to finagle her a press pass and she played the part to perfection. She’d been hanging out with reporters too long.

We watched the trial with interest. Defendant Tony Mangione sat smugly next to his company of high-priced lawyers. The prosecutor was busy conferring with his assistants.

Lucy nudged me. “How come Clark isn’t part of this assignment?”

“Perry’s got him on something else.”

“Trailing the Prince around?”

I frowned. Lucy _was_ hanging around too much with reporters. She was too damned nosy, not to mention successful at ferreting out the story.

The proceedings were interesting. I kept up with my notes and Lucy made some, too. When we compared them at lunch, I was impressed by what she had picked up.

“Looks like the prosecution’s got a good case,” said Lucy. “Isn’t the D.A. going to present his star witness tomorrow?”

“That’s the rumor.”

“Should be good theater.”

It also meant that I had to make my move tonight.

& & & & & &

I looked at myself in my full-length mirror. I had to admit, _Luciano’s_ had style. Waiters dressed in black jackets and pants with crisp white shirts, and the waitresses wore black dresses trimmed in white lace with little white caps. I looked mighty fine in my uniform.

Happily someone had the sense to specify flats instead of high heels. I wore a brown wig and glasses, hoping that no one would recognize me. I grabbed my coat and purse and headed out.

& & & & & &

I’ve been in my share of restaurant kitchens. Being an investigative reporter causes you to don many hats. Waitress was often one of them. I usually learned a lot while posing as one. People tended to ignore waitstaff unless they’re looking for a bottle of ketchup or the check.

The manager directed me where to put my coat and purse in a room full of lockers. When I entered the kitchen, I was hit with a cacophony of sound: people shouting, dish covers clanging, the stoves sizzling and the silverware clattering. There’s nothing quite like the chaos of a restaurant kitchen.

I received my stations and order pad. I weaved my way to the small pantry where the waitstaff congregated away from the noisy kitchen. The hostess, an older woman with silver hair and a pleasant face, pointed out my tables. 

“If you get overwhelmed your first night, just tell me and I’ll help out.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Martinelli.”

I went to my first table after studying the evening’s specials. The couple at the table were easy customers, knowing what they wanted and not having any special requests.

I soon got into the rhythm of waitressing. I had no problems and was quick and efficient, to the approval of the manager. 

I hoped to catch some tidbits about the trial. Mobsters ate at Italian restaurants and talked. They liked their veal piccata and discussions about things.

Finally, two hours into my shift there was a table of possibilities. I was very demure as I took the orders of three men who I recognized as Mangione men. As I went to the kitchen I caught the word ‘tomorrow’.

The contrast between the dining room and the kitchen was jarring. Out there all was quiet with an underlining of soft piano music. Papa Luciano employed a pianist instead of piped-in music.

In here was that total chaos. It reminded me of the newsroom. I _loved_ it!

“Good job so far, Kane,” said the manager.

“Thanks, sir.”

I took care of another table and returned to the Mob table. I brought them warm garlic bread and crisp salads. After depositing the first course I puttered around at the next booth. Plants separated each booth and gave them a measure of privacy, not to mention me.

“We can’t let that _jamoke_ testify.”

“Relax, the fix is in.”

“I’d rather the location of the rat was known and we…” said the first thug, a stocky man with a scar across his cheek.

“Shaddup,” said a third voice. This guy was thin and had a weasel-like face, hard eyes missing nothing. The second guy was sort of in-between, not too stocky or thin, kind of just there, y’know?

I smiled all the way back to the kitchen.

& & & & & &

The Mob table wasn’t spilling any more beans, but I was hopeful. I was still figuring out how to get more information when I was at my next station before I knew it.

“Good evening, gentlemen. What can I get you?”

I nearly blurted out my outrage when I saw the diners: Clark and Wayne!

“What’ll you have, sir?” I asked Clark. Let Wayne wait his turn!

“Hmm, well, let me see. The chicken _cacciatore_ sounds good.”

I concentrated on taking their orders, keeping my eyes on my pad. Hopefully they’d be too busy making goo-goo eyes at each other to notice me.

I headed back to the kitchen and put in their orders.

“Desserts ready Table 12!” called the pastry chef.

That was my Mob table. I took the tray of _spumoni_ out.

“And I say fix or no fix, we oughtta have a back-up plan.” The stocky mobster was definitely disgruntled.

“What plan? It’ll all play out tomorrow in court,” shrugged the second thug.

“We should have a guy across the street.”

They stopped talking as I approached. Oh, well. I had some stuff, more than if I hadn’t played this part. Every little bit helped, because I really didn’t expect them to openly talk about silencing witnesses! Though sometimes you’d be surprised in this business.

Once I was through with Table 12, I went to Table 13. Clark was listening intently to something that Wayne was saying. Oh, well, I suppose he was doing his job. Writing a puff piece still requires some effort.

“I forgot to mention we are offering free sesame seed sticks tonight if you’d like them.”

“Sure, bring them on.” Wayne waved his hand dismissively.

I did a slow burn on my way back to the kitchen. I loathe rich types who treat the rest of us like dirt. I’m surprised that Clark is attracted to a jerk like that.

I got the sesame seed sticks. Their salads were also ready, so out I went again.

“Now, polo is an intriguing sport,” Wayne was saying. “Good work-out for the horses. Are you a rider, Mr. Kent?”

“Yes, I rode on the farm.”

“Plow horses, no doubt.”

I set down the breadsticks and salads. Was Clark going to take that lying down?

“Now, Mr. Wayne, the horses I rode were good and sturdy.”

I went over to the bar and got their drinks, delivering them as Clark was saying, “There’s a lot to be said for farm work, Mr. Wayne. Greatest exercise in the world!”

_You tell ‘em, Clark!_

The mobsters were almost finished with their desserts. My potential source of information would be walking out the door.

“We need to make a move tonight,” the first gangster insisted.

“All right, we’ll case the hotel and see what we can do,” the third gangster decided.

I laid the leather folder with the check enclosed. I began clearing away the dishes. When I returned, the hard-eyed mobster handed me the folder. 

“Keep the change, honey.”

My skin crawled at his lecherous smile. “Thank you, sir.”

I wanted to follow them but my shift had quite a bit of time to go. I brought minestrone soup to Table 13 and got an idea. I set Clark’s soup down and tipped the bowl from the tray, making a glorious splash all over Bruce Wayne’s expensive white shirt. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” I grabbed his napkin to help him clean up.

Mrs. Martinelli hurried over. “Oh, we’re so sorry, Mr. Wayne!”

“Fire this incompetent person,” Wayne said coldly. “I’m going to the men’s room.”

Mrs. Martinelli shook her head. “You’d better go.”

_Perfect!_

“Yes, ma’am.”

I hurried through the kitchen to the locker room and grabbed my coat and purse. Good thing Bruce Wayne was a high-handed cretin. I was out the door into the alley and saw my quarry standing at the far end. All I needed was to trail them and…

“Raise your hands, bitch.”

A gun poked into my back. Furious, I raised my hands. Another poke in the back set me walking. 

A whuff of air and a thump behind me caused me to turn around. One of the thugs from Table 12 was crumpled on the ground. An annoyed Bruce Wayne was shaking his hand, his shirt soup-spattered.

“What are _you_ doing here?” I asked.

“Saving your life, Ms. Lane.”

“Ms…La…? You _knew_ it was me?” 

“Not at first. You’re good with disguises.”

“I could have gotten myself out of this, you know.”

“No doubt.”

“Thanks.” My tone was grudging, but give him his due.

“You’re welcome,” he said dryly.

I looked at the end of the alley. “Damnit, they’re gone!”

& & & & & &

I tossed the paper down on the kitchen table. Lucy looked up from her plate of scrambled eggs.

“Did you get another front page byline?”

“Not exactly.”

Lucy spread out the paper with the thick black headline, **ATTEMPTED HIT ON MANGIONE WITNESS THWARTED BY SUPERMAN.** The byline read **By Clark Kent.**

“Wow, Clarkie sure is peppermint ice cream.”

“Huh?”

“Looks like he got a scoop.”

I rolled my eyes while Lucy laughed.

& & & & & &

The Mangione trial was a win for the prosecution. The attempted murder of the prosecution’s star witness convinced the jury of Mangione's guilt. I went back to the _Daily Planet_ while Lucy headed for the airport to work the London flight.

I reached my desk in the newsroom. A cup of coffee and a pumpkin doughnut was on Clark’s desk and his computer ready for typing, but no Clark.

I locked my purse in the bottom drawer of my desk and stared morosely at the blinking cursor on my computer screen after booting up. I had plenty to write but suddenly no enthusiasm to do it.

Clark came back to his desk. “Why so gloomy, Gus?”

I rolled my eyes. Sprawled in my chair, strands of hair hung in my eyes while I felt boneless.

“You scooped me.”

“Tricks-of-the-trade, partner, tricks-of-the-trade.” He straightened his loose tie.

I stuck my tongue out but he only laughed. I stayed in sulk mode. “I worked like a dog on that Mob story, Smallville.” I kicked my desk, hiding my wince. “And you get the big headline!” 

“That’s the newspaper game.”

Clark’s breezy tone made me want to strangle him. With a huge, put-upon sigh I heaved myself into a sitting position. I started to type.

“For a guy writing a puff piece, you sure got lucky last night,” I grumbled.

“You’re right, he did get lucky.”

The voice of Bruce Wayne was silky-smooth behind my chair. I yelped as cold water was poured over the top of my head, soaking my shirt. Wayne came into view and stood beside Clark with a smirk on his rich boy face.

“What…!” I sputtered.

“Hey, you’re lucky it wasn’t minestrone soup.”

I glared at him but knew he had the right to get back at me. I can respect someone out for revenge.

Clark smiled at Wayne, who actually smiled back at him. Yeesh!

“How about lunch today, Clark?” Wayne asked.

“Sure, Bruce.”

So this was my life now: Smallville dating the Prince. Oh, well, maybe I could get a pipeline to Wayne without going through a secretary now.

As I clicked away on the keyboard, Clark laughed at a joke uttered by his new boyfriend. If Bruce Wayne hurt Clark, he’d be sleeping with the fishes.

I looked up and met Wayne’s eyes. He knew.

Smart for a rich kid.


End file.
